


i'll take coffee and talk about nothing

by jericheaux



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 02:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21486592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jericheaux/pseuds/jericheaux
Summary: Two penitent thieves.[ Rafe survives and makes it to Sam's place. ]
Relationships: Rafe Adler/Samuel Drake
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77





	i'll take coffee and talk about nothing

**Author's Note:**

> i have uncharted brainrot also im projecting being psychotic onto rafe *bangs gong* 
> 
> they were vaguely together for the 2 years after rafe paid sam's bail and then. well yk what happens
> 
> i havent written anything in so long forgive me. i love them.

Two days out of Libertalia and the place already feels like a memory.

Sam is holed up in a shabby little house to recuperate- south of Boston, gifted to him through a friend of a friend of Sully's. His few worldly possessions are still boxed up in the living room, a small kingdom of old books and worn-out clothes. The lamps in the house are dull and weathered, bathing the whole one-story place in soft orange light. It's enough to cook dinner by, to set up his desk, to get back on his feet.

In the evening hour, there's a quiet knock on the door. Sam grumbles, figuring it to be some salesman, or Jehovah's Witness, or possibly Nate- he pads over and clicks open the lock. 

A haggard, beaten-up Rafe stands on his front steps. 

Sam barely opens his mouth to voice any one of the thousands of emotions running through him, but Rafe conveniently spares him the trouble of conversation by choking up bile onto the porch. Sam grimaces as Rafe vomits seawater a step away from his feet, and once he's done, standing there hacking like a dog and shaking; Sam gently takes his arm and drags him inside. 

"You need a doctor," is the first thing Sam says once he's laid Rafe out on the couch. Rafe shakes his head and turns to look at Sam with a glassy gaze. Sam purses his lips and clucks like a mother hen before giving in and kneeling down next to the couch. His hands move steadily as he literally peels Rafe's shirt off of him- hooks his fingers under the damp fabric, works it off of Rafe and gets a feel for his pulse. It's weak, but present, accompanied by odd blue bruising on Rafe's ribcage; deep purple marks on his abdomen and arms. The large cut on his stomach doesn't look infected and bleeds only when Sam prods it (to which Rafe winces sharply.) His hair is matted with sand, his skin cold and clammy. Rafe stays silent as Sam undresses him down to his underwear and stands him up. They walk to the bathroom together, Rafe following Sam with numb footsteps, one hand rubbing absentmindedly at his stubble.

"Can you stand?" Sam asks. Rafe nods, and Sam reaches around him to turn on the shower. He cups a bit of the warm stream in his hand and pats Rafe's face. "Is that okay?"

Rafe only nods again. 

Sam gives him some shampoo and soap, a washcloth, and then leaves him be.

\---

Twenty minutes later, Rafe sits mutely at the kitchen table in a pair of Sam's old sweatpants. Sam did his best to disinfect, salve, and bandage all the visible wounds- there's a cut on Rafe's forehead that's already starting to form a nasty scar. When Sam's done wrapping Rafe's stomach in gauze, he helps him put on a tee-shirt that hangs too large off his small frame. Sam patters about, makes Rafe some toast and a cup of broth, both of which he consumes slowly and methodically as Sam rummages about in his things for a blanket. Rafe watches through the open doorway, takes his food and drink without complaint and after he's had enough water to fill a small reservoir; he taps on Sam's shoulder. Sam's laid sheets over the couch- his only set, actually- and Rafe passes out the second Sam guides his head to the pillow. 

The next morning Sam wakes from an unsteady and fitful rest. He had fallen asleep soon after Rafe had, on the still-bare mattress in the bedroom. The sun is bright and warm through the slatted shades and Sam rolls over to get a look at the clock. It's around ten in the morning when he gets himself to the kitchen and grabs a cup of slightly warm coffee that sits on the counter. There's some new dishes in the sink, soaking in soapy water. 

Rafe's curled up in one of Sam's thrifted deck chairs- the ones with the fat comfy cushions that Sully likes to sleep in. He's drawn his knees up to his chest, still in Sam's clothes (now wearing the St. Francis sweatshirt Sam had left tossed casually on the floor) and a pair of Sam's socks. It's all too big for him, but he looks quite cozy as he sits on the porch. Sam notes that Rafe had cleaned up the spot where he vomited- now it's just a dark stain.

Sam shrugs on his own jacket and creaks open the door, coffee in hand as he steps into the brisk air. 

"Mornin'," says Rafe. 

"Nice weather," Sam answers casually. Leans on the porch railing and digs a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. "Want one?" 

"Please." 

Sam lights his own before tossing the zippo to Rafe, who after a few attempts manages to light up with a deep sigh. They smoke in relative silence, Rafe fervently watching the birds that caw overhead and the cars zooming by. 

"Why did you come back?" Sam asks, once he's ashed out into the grass and is working on sipping his coffee. "Why did you come to me?"

"You're the only fucker left who doesn't want me dead," Rafe says.

"Maybe I took you in just to kill you," Sam mutters, and Rafe laughs hollowly at that. His voice is scratchy and deeper than usual, like the saltwater nestled itself in his vocal cords. 

Rafe inhales deeply. Sniffs and shakes in the early-fall cold. Doesn't look at Sam when he says, "I do think I died out there." 

Sam cocks his head to indicate that he's listening. Rafe doesn't pick up on it and continues to stare unblinking, wide-eyed, blank; at some spot on the horizon.

"I remember sinking and choking and searing, searing pain." Rafe's mouth barely moves as he talks, monotone and quiet. "I don't know when I woke up on the shore, I don't remember how I got off that damned island, how I got on the plane. At some point, I got my hands on a payphone and called up an old contact around here, who was able to give me your whereabouts." Rafe's gaze doesn't shift, and when he does move his head to look at Sam, it's like he's been woken out of a dream. He shudders, blinks rapidly and tries to give Sam a tired smile. When Rafe speaks again, his voice is thick with suppressed anguish. "I have nothing anymore. I have no one. I don't know if I'm alive or dead or in-between, and if you want to kill me, do it." The tears roll down Rafe's face, traverse his smile lines to meet the edges of his desperate grin.

"Rafe, I'm not gonna kill you," Sam relents. "I... couldn't do that." 

Rafe feverishly shakes his head and weeps harder. 

"Here. Let's go inside," Sam insists, forces Rafe back into the house and onto the couch. Rafe is still silently, wildly crying, tears streaming, non-stop now, down his face. 

"Sam-" Rafe chokes on his own voice. "Sam, you're not gonna- please, let me-" he rambles a bit nonsensically, pleading for nothing in particular except Sam, Sam, Sam; who in turn soothes Rafe as best as he can with a firm hug. When Rafe has finally run out of steam, he clings tightly onto Sam as his whole body is wracked with soundless sobs; and they've been there so long that Sam is reclining back on the couch- Sam lets Rafe hyperventilate himself to sleep on his chest. 

\---

After that, the next days run in more or less a similar fashion. Rafe makes them a lousy breakfast, smokes, cries, sleeps on the couch. A few days in his wounds are getting better and his crying has stopped- Sam notices him picking up books again, turning on the radio when Sam's doing housework. With his health come snark, curiosity, boredom. Sam starts making digs at Rafe's shitty cooking, to which Rafe snaps with a well-meaning and occasionally genuine smile. After a week Rafe sets off with the little bit of money he has left to buy some clothes that fit him. After a month, Rafe is almost fully healed, the weight he lost has been put back on, his eyebags are no longer so deep and permanent.

A month and a half in, Sam calls Nate. 

"Yes- yes, okay, we'll come for dinner. Yeah. Okay. See you." Sam hangs up the phone with a prolonged sigh. "Nate's making us come to his place tonight," he calls out. 

Rafe answers from the other room, "At least it's better than what either of us can cook up." 

That night, Sam drives them in his shitty truck to Nate's place forty minutes away. Rafe's a nervous wreck in the car, fusses over his hair and fiddles with the CD player, gives a high-strung laugh to any of the numerous bad jokes Sam makes to relieve the tension. When they arrive, Sam parks haphazardly on the side of the road and opens Rafe's door for him. 

"Hold up," Sam says when Rafe hops out. He slides a cigarette out of the ever-present pack in his jeans pocket and offers one to Rafe, who accepts. When Rafe motions for the lighter once Sam's done with it, Sam tucks it away and grins at him. 

"Little trick," he says, and bends down to touch the tip of his cigarette to Rafe's unlit one. "Inhale."

Rafe does. The tobacco crackles and Rafe swallows.

"It's gonna be okay," Sam says. Knocks Rafe good-naturedly on the shoulder. 

"I know," Rafe says and furrows his brow. "I can hold my own against Nate," he chides; a hint of humor somewhere in there that doesn't quite make it out.

Sam shrugs.

"It's just," Rafe starts, "I don't want... to leave." He opens his mouth slightly and closes it again; like he's fumbling for words just out of reach. "Sam, those two years with you... and now..." Rafe turns his head to look into Sam's eyes, searches for mutual assurance- 

"Do you understand?" Is all Rafe says.

Sam leans down and kisses him, mingles their smoke and spit in one good kiss that leaves Rafe grinning into his mouth. Rafe slings his arms around Sam's back, finds purchase on his neck; plays with his hair. When they part, Sam's arm is around Rafe's waist, and Rafe leans into the touch.


End file.
